


Fair Game

by sloganeer



Series: The Loup [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, derek hale is grumpy cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:25:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sloganeer/pseuds/sloganeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Did I tell Derek he looks like a cat?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fair Game

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [Grumpy Cat](http://www.buzzfeed.com/lyapalater/tyler-hoechlin-is-the-grumpy-cat).

The bodega around the corner is cleaner, they carry the good imported shrimp crackers, and the lady behind the counter is really nice. She always says hello, and she knit Stiles a scarf when it became obvious he was suffering his first New York winter. But the place across the street is where Stiles shops when he’s high.

Scott is always late for their Friday video game nights, but after he’s made his Allison excuses, he holds up a bottle of Jack or a bag of something he swears is the good Hawaiian shit. Stiles forgives him and rolls up three nice size joints. After all that, he doesn't want to have to trek around the corner for his munchies. Stiles knows for a fact he won't make it that far without tripping and going face-first into the gutter.

"Can't you go?" he whines in Scott's general direction. Scott claimed the sofa early, kicking off his boots and spreading himself out. Now he's asleep, snoring into the afghan Stiles brought all the way from Beacon Hills, and Stiles is on the cold floor. He puts on a pair of pants and walks across the street to buy barbecue chips, red liquorice, and a six pack.

"Hey!" He drops his stuff on the counter. The dude at the register looks as unimpressed as his cat. "You have a cat. That's new." It hisses when Stiles reaches out to scratch its head. “Fine. I don’t need you.”

There's not a lot of change from his twenty. That's the other reason Stiles doesn't like this place. Besides, he’d rather drink his beer at his bar.

Stiles works in the computer lab after classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and the whole afternoon shift on Saturday. It's nice, because Stiles gets lot of his homework done between helping kids connect to the internet to mess around on Facebook and last minute panics when their papers are due and the printers won't print. But the afternoon shift ruins his entire Saturday--too early to do anything in the morning except sleep off a late Friday night and too late to go anywhere but The Loup.

Stiles had his pick of schools, but both Allison and Lydia had their sights on New York. Scott worked his ass off junior year, and Stiles helped him with a kickass essay about his dad and lacrosse and only metaphorically about the werewolf thing, too, and by some great miracle (or a deal with a crossroads demon), Scott got into Columbia. So Stiles signed his Columbia acceptance letter, and five years ago, they packed up his Jeep and moved across the country.

The Loup is like home now. There’s beer and music and wi-fi if you can get Erica to give you the day’s password. Stiles thinks she changes it just to fuck with him. In the back, there’s a pool table, crammed into a corner. They only play when Lydia comes out with them. She’s the only one small enough to make the tight shots and sink them. Stiles likes to watch her bend. Lydia lets him watch. They’re friends now, and Stiles knows it’s better this way.

He likes The Loup because it looks like a place where grown-ups hang out, and for a few hours, he gets to feel like he belongs in that world. He pushes open the heavy door and announces to the room, "I am going to need many, many drinks."

Stiles takes the stool at the far end of the bar, closest to the jukebox. His spot is close to the back room, where Scott washes dishes, and Stiles likes being in control of the music, because the old Irish dudes listen to old Irish punk that just sounds like noise to Stiles. But from his spot at the far end of the bar, Stiles can sit and drink and watch Derek without feeling like a creep.

The Loup is Derek’s place, but he pretends he’s just the bartender. He doesn’t talk much, or at all, really, but Stiles likes him. Stiles likes to watch him. He's tall and dark, and sometimes he wears his shirts unbuttoned so Stiles can see the hair on his chest. 

Ten years ago, he was the star lacrosse player at Beacon Hills High School. Stiles remembers having a crush then, the first time he remembers thinking maybe boys were just as interesting as girls. Then someone burned down the Hale house out in the woods, and Derek lost his entire family, save his big sister, Laura.

They disappeared after that, and Stiles’s dad never solved the case. It was either fate or Scott’s freaky wolfy sense that brought them into The Loup freshman year. Derek didn’t remember Stiles, and he wouldn’t sell them a drink, but they kept coming back.

Scott thinks Stiles's crush is stupid, but Scott skipped the crush and went straight to true love with Allison. She’s taking time off from grad school to train with the Olympic archery team, so he doesn’t get enough time with her and takes it out on Stiles. Scott thinks Stiles should get back together with Charlie, who liked lacrosse and weed just as much as them, but also liked to sleep with other boys. Stiles didn't tell Scott that part because Scott tends to go wolf on people who try to hurt his friends. It's better for them both if Scott keeps a handle on that stuff right now.

None of it matters because Derek doesn't like Stiles. He asks to see ID every time Stiles orders a drink, even though he knows. He glares when Stiles plays Billy Joel on the jukebox. Derek looks hot and dangerous when he glares. Stiles plays a lot of Billy Joel.

But if Derek stays at one end of the bar, and Stiles stays at the other, the afternoon turns easily into evening, and Stiles gets easily buzzed.

"Hey, Boyd?" Stiles waves his hand, then lets it thunk heavy on the bar. Boyd is Stiles’s favourite bartender. Derek is infuriating, Erica lives to torment him, but Boyd is quiet and keeps the drinks coming. He works Stiles's end of the bar because that's where the cash register is and the pass-through to the kitchen. "Do you know how to make a strawberry daiquiri?"

Boyd gives him a look. Not as good as Derek's looks, because Derek is certainly rubbing off on his employees. Stiles thinks Boyd’s muscles are bigger than Derek's, though that could just be the tight shirts.

He doesn't say anything. He turns away from Stiles and grabs a burger in a basket from under the heat lamp.

"How 'bout a burger, then?"

Scott bumps him with his hip as he passes by with a tub of dirty dishes. "Stop embarrassing yourself, Stiles."

"I'm not embarrassing," Stiles says. He doesn't remember how many Beck’s he's had, but there are four upside down shot glasses in front of him, so there's a whole night ahead. "I'm going to play Piano Man again."

Stiles pulls the change out of his pocket and dumps it on the bar, looking for quarters. 

“Hey, Boyd.”

He ignores Stiles to pour a line of shots, heading towards the end of the bar at his own convenience.

“What?” Boyd asks, arms across his chest.

“If I gave you three dimes and four nickels, would you give me two quarters?” Stiles holds up the coins to convince him it’s a good deal.

“You’re going to play that damn song again, aren’t you?” Boyd stares him down. Stiles has only played it once since he got here three hours ago. “He’s going to kill you,” Boyd says, but he opens the register with a swift hit on the side and trades Stiles his handful of change for two new quarters.

Boyd enjoys Derek’s pain as much as Stiles does.

He only stumbles a little, getting down off the stool. Stiles has had more than he usually drinks and less than he usually eats at lunch. He’s waiting on that hamburger.

The quarters make a satisfying clinking sound. Stiles has the number memorised. He’s memorised the whole Billy Joel discography. 

He feels the eyes on the back of his neck before he turns around. The short hairs on his neck come to attention, and he feels the look all the way down to his toes. He puts on a big drunk grin and turns around to face the music.

You can’t shake your hips to Piano Man, but Stiles does. Derek is looking. He has a vodka bottle in his hand, like Stiles caught him mid-pour.

“What are you doing?” Scott hisses in his ear. He’s come out from the back with a dish towel in his hands. “Stiles, I need this job. Do not get me fired.”

“I’m not getting you fired,” he says. “I’m getting me laid.”

“Oh, God, how many drinks have you had?”

“Just enough,” Stiles says. “Now go away.”

Derek is out from behind the bar now. He has a dish towel in his hands, too, the one which is usually tucked into the back pocket of his tight black jeans. Stiles loves that dish towel. Now Derek is twisting it in his hands, turning it into the meanest rat-tail Stiles has seen since the high school locker room. 

Stiles backs himself up against the jukebox, hands on the neon tubes, and he points his hips in Derek’s direction.

But Derek ignores him completely. He kneels down and yanks the power cord out of the wall. He glares down at Stiles, not looking at his hips at all. When he walks back to the bar, Derek stops only long enough to snap the towel in Stiles’s direction.

“Hey!”

But before he can come up with a better comeback, Boyd leans across the counter and says, “Order up!”

“Fine,” Stiles says. He takes his burger from Boyd and wanders down to the other end of the bar. Derek’s end.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks.

An old red-faced man peers up through round glasses and holds up a weary hand to say, Take it. Stiles thanks him with a bow. 

“No.” Derek even scares the old man, and Stiles is sure the dude survived at least one war.

“Too bad,” Stiles tells him. He sets his burger basket on the bar and hoists himself onto to the stool. “And I want a strawberry daiquiri.”

Derek brings him another Beck’s. 

“There’s this cat,” Stiles says. He takes a big bite and talks through the rest of it. “He lives in the bodega across the street from my apartment.” 

Derek is listening, but now he’s leaning against the back of the bar, watching. Stiles is watching his hands tighten on the counter and his whole body go taut like a wire. It’s awesome. This close, Stiles can even see the lines of his abs through the shirt.

He swallows. “You have the same eyebrows. As this cat, I mean. You should meet him. I don’t know if he is a he, but you’d be nice to a grumpy girl cat, wouldn’t you?”

“Why are you still talking?” Derek says. He scans the bar, but no one is looking for him. Boyd has the rest of the men taken care of, and Scott is on dish duty. Derek has nothing better to do than stand here and keep Stiles company.

This could go well. 

He finishes his burger and pulls another drink off his beer, and immediately, Stiles knows it’s the wrong move. The food sits heavy in his stomach and sloshes when he tries to move. Stiles groans and rolls his head against the cool wood of the bar.

Derek’s voice is closer when Stiles hears it again. “Another beer, kid?”

He is enjoying this far too much. But at this moment, even that feels like victory, because Derek doesn’t enjoy anything, except those rare days Laura comes in for a drink. Sometimes, the two of them walk home together. Apparently Derek can smile, and when it’s directed at Stiles, it’s terrifying.

“You suck,” he says. The old red-faced man pats his back, and Stiles feels like he’s going to throw up. 

“Scott!” Derek’s voice rings in his ears. “Take your friend home.”

Stiles doesn’t work Sundays. When he comes out of the beer and burger fog, around one, Scott is on his sofa, playing Mario on the classic Nintendo.

“You didn’t have to stay all night,” Stiles says. Scott doesn’t say anything. “Oh. Isaac told you not to come home?”

Scott gives him a thumbs up for a right answer. 

“That’s nice,” Stiles says. “He and Erica are a cute couple.” She hates him, and Stiles suspects she waters his drinks, but Isaac is a good kid, and Stiles can be happy for him. Still. “Everyone is having more sex than I am,” Stiles complains. 

Scott waves a hand over his head. “I made coffee.”

“Oh, that makes up for everything, thanks.” He leaves Scott on the couch and checks the state of his kitchen. Stiles didn’t think Scott knew how the coffeemaker worked. The coffee looks weak, like he didn’t boil the water hot enough and let the coffee steep enough before Scott got eager with the french press plunger. But Stiles needs caffeine.

He loads up a cup with milk and sugar and drinks it right there in the kitchen. After making a second cup to take with him, Stiles joins Scott on the couch.

They play Mario for a few hours. Stiles finally found a working gun controller at a pawn shop on 125th, so they play a few rounds of Duck Hunt after. Scott sucks. Hand-to-hand is more his thing--claw-to-claw, rather. But Stiles has all the years his dad showed him how to use a gun safely and efficiently, and later, Allison taught him how to use a crossbow, when Stiles decided he needed a better weapon than his brain. He needed something offensive, so they started training after school, out in the woods.

Allison still takes him out to the range sometimes, but New York is surprisingly quiet when it comes to the supernatural. Stiles is happy to be research guy. Still, it’s nice to know he can kill some pixel ducks when he needs to.

“Scott,” Stiles asks.

“Yeah, man?”

He takes a minute, playing last night over in his head once more, just to be sure. “Did I tell Derek he looks like a cat?”

Scott groans. “I don’t know, dude. It was embarrassing for us all. Do we have to talk about it, too?”

“No,” Stiles says. “We absolutely don’t.”

Which means the answer is yes. Last night, he told Derek-the-grumpy-bartender how he looks like Grumpy-the-bodega-cat.

Stiles has a paper due tomorrow. He can’t deal with this right now. He leaves Scott on the couch and finds his laptop under his bed. He makes more coffee, good coffee, and writes at the kitchen counter for three straight hours until the paper is done and his stomach is growling at him.

“What was that noise?” Scott says. He’s still on the couch.

“You heard that?”

“You want to get a pizza?”

Stiles needs to get out of this apartment. “No.” He emails the paper to his professor and stands up. He stretches until his fingers touch the ceiling. “No, we need to get out of here. Let’s go to the bar.”

Scott looks like he wants to say no, but he doesn’t.

The bar is different at night. Stiles is usually here during the day. He’s so used to the sad old men who use the bar like their office, the ones who have no better place to go, the ones who drink like it’s their job. 

During the day, Stiles can pretend that it isn’t a bar. It’s just a place where he hangs out with his best friend, plays a little music, and watches the hot guy twirling bottles. Derek doesn’t actually twirl bottles--mostly he pulls pints and opens beers--but in Stiles’s head, Derek is Tom Cruise, who knows just the right cocktail to make a boy’s pants fall off, who is never more than one step away from jumping on the counter and reciting a poem to declare his love.

Daydreams are easier during the day.

At night, the bar is just a bar. It’s too crowded, with college kids and young professionals. All the girls are wearing too much makeup and glitter that sparkles even in the low-light. The boys don’t know how to dress themselves. Stiles lives in comfortable jeans and hoodies, but even he knows that banker shirts are over. 

The music they’re playing is awful, too. Stiles thought he knew the whole jukebox, but the college kids hanging around the box have managed to find some country drinking song and they’re all singing along. 

Scott sees the crowds, too, and he leans in to speak in Stiles’s ear. “I’m going to see if Boyd wants any help back there.”

He disappears, swallowed up into a cloud of perfume and off-key notes. Stiles pushes his way to the bar. He can’t see Derek, just the spiky black hair above the chaos.

“Hey, Grumpy Cat!”

Stiles wasn’t sure that would work, but Derek stops. He turns. He almost smiles.

A tall dude with a ridiculous moustache reaches out a hand to snap at Derek. A pretty girl with curly black hair tries to get his attention as he passes. A boy in big round glasses actually calls him “garçon”, like that’s going to work. 

Derek ignores them all.

By the time he gets to the end of the bar where Stiles has pushed open a space to lean, he has a Beck’s, cold from the cooler. He uses the bottom of his shirt to open the bottle, and Stiles catches a glimpse of abs. 

“Why are you so happy?” Derek asks. He sets Stiles’s beer on the bar in front of him, so there’s no chance for accidental finger touching. But Derek sets his hip against the bar and doesn’t look interested in moving away.

“I have a beer. I could use a place to sit, but this is good, too.”

Boyd calls Derek’s name. He steps away to take care of a few customers. The kids are asking for PBR and martinis. Derek tells them they can drink what’s on tap or go next door. The song switches over to one of those fast Irish punk tunes. Before Stiles can calculate how long it might take him to get to the jukebox to fix it, Derek catches his eye. With a look, his eyebrows, he tells Stiles to stay put. Don’t even think about it.

A girl on his left says, “What does it take to get a drink around here?”

“What are you looking for?” Stiles asks. 

She smiles and asks for whiskey.

Stiles feels powerful, holding up a hand the next time Derek’s eyes come back around to his. 

“You’re not getting drunk tonight,” Derek says. It sounds like an order and sends a chill down his spine.

“Whiskey for the lady,” he says with a nod. Stiles grins big because he made a friend and he wasn’t even trying. 

Derek’s eyebrows go Super Grumpy Cat, but he grabs the Jameson’s bottle and pours her a glass. She says thanks, and Stiles says thanks, and Derek stalks off to yell at the dude in the suspenders. 

“Must be nice,” she says.

“Hmm?”

“Having a bartender for a boyfriend.”

“Who has a boyfriend?” Stiles asks. He loses his grip on his sweaty beer bottle.

She shakes her head and gives him a beautiful smile. “Have a good night,” she says, takes her glass, and disappears into the music.

It has Stiles thinking all night. He steals the first stool to come free, when Derek tells the underage kids with the fake IDs to get the hell out. Scott comes around to give Stiles a basket of nachos someone ordered before they disappeared. Boyd says hey, Erica blows him a kiss, and someone even plays Piano Man without prompting from Stiles at all. It’s a good night.

Derek is there on the edges. Every time Stiles looks up, he’s there. He’s there with another beer before Stiles finishes the first. 

“Maybe he likes cats,” Stiles says out loud. Nothing else seems to make sense.

Scott nods so hard, he nearly falls off his stool. “That sounds right,” he says. “Instead of you making a drunk fool of yourself one too many times, you’ve finally worn him down to the place where he wants to take you home. Sure, Stiles.”

“I like cats,” Stiles says. He does. 

They’ve lost track of the time, and no one seems to remember that it’s Sunday night. Stiles starts to wonder what happened to that disco place at the end of the block to send all the kids down this way. Then he notices Derek shrugging on his black leather jacket.

This is usually his favourite moment of any night he spends at The Loup. He doesn't want Derek to cover up that body, but he does like watching him move and stretch under that leather. Derek isn't paying attention to anyone else in the bar. Certainly not Stiles. Though Stiles would've said the yesterday, too, and that doesn't seem to be true anymore. 

“Stiles!” Lydia’s voice is a clear ringing bell above the madness, and then she’s right there, arms open and demanding a hug. Scott spots Allison before him, but she’s there, too, over Lydia’s shoulder. “Who are these people in our bar?” Lydia asks.

“Kids,” Stiles says. He turns back to the bar to ask Derek for some drinks, but it’s only Boyd there now. That’s right. Stiles looks to the door, but he’s gone. Stiles missed him.

Lydia punches his shoulder to get his attention. “Did you have your eye on someone new?”

“No,” Scott says, laughing. 

Allison is on Stiles’s side. She doesn’t laugh. She looks a little sad, actually. “Hey,” she says, giving him a quick hug when Scott releases her to get their drinks. “Let’s go kick the kids off the pool table.”

Lydia and Allison take care of the kids; Scott carries the drinks. Stiles spares one last look back to the front door, and then he tries to put Derek out of his head for the rest of the night.

Stiles has three more papers to write that week, and Scott takes a bunch of afternoon shifts at the bar so he can take Allison out somewhere nice on Thursday night. Nearly seven days go by before Stiles is back at The Loup, back at his spot at the far end of the bar, back to nicely buzzed and watching Derek’s ass in those jeans.

"How about Derek carries you home tonight?" Scott says, leaning on Stiles’s shoulder with his mop in the other hand.

"How about you pick up my tab?" Stiles says. "And call me a taxi."

He’s feeling it in his hands and his feet, warm tingles that also make his dick hard. He falls off the stool and he's still spinning when Scott yanks him up by his armpits.

“Whoa, buddy,” he says. The mop clattering to the floor is loud in Stiles’s ears. “Maybe if you throw up first, you’ll feel better.”

“You’re a lightweight, Stilinski!” Erica leans on the bar, her hair in her face and her lips a bright red grin. Boyd is pulling a pint, looking none too impressed. Stiles expects Derek is shaking his head at him, eager to tell him how he’s screwed up again. But when Stiles picks himself up, he can’t see Derek.

“I’m good,” Stiles says. Scott lets him go, and Stiles can stand on his own. He’s really not that drunk. He’d just like to go home and wallow. He didn’t even get to watch Derek pour himself into his black leather jacket tonight.

“Don’t walk, Stiles. Get a taxi.” Scott puts both hands on Stiles’s shoulders and stares him down. He’s still hoping one day that his werewolf powers will evolve into psychic powers. Stiles doesn’t know what more Scott could want.

“I promise,” Stiles tells him, and that makes them all happy. 

He zips his sweatshirt all the way and pulls up the hood. Stiles didn’t wear a jacket today, and that was stupid. He doesn’t even have the scarf Allison knit him when she thought she might try to be a knitter.

Outside, Derek is standing against the pay phone. He looks likes he waiting, but Stiles can't imagine what for. Stiles stands frozen in the doorway.

"The best thing for a hangover is a big greasy breakfast," Derek says, and that's when Stiles realises he’s waiting for him.

"Do you have a hangover?" Stiles asks. 

Derek shakes his head. He stands up straight, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I never drink on the job."

"No wonder you're such a grumpy cat."

"No more cats," Derek says. He holds up a hand. "No more Billy Joel, and I'll buy you breakfast."

“That--” Stiles trips over his feet, but Derek is there to catch him. “That sounds great.”

The place around the corner is open 24 hours. Scott and Stiles eat there a lot because it’s close to the bar and to Scott and Isaac’s apartment, and they also make square waffles. Stiles has opinions about square versus round waffles.

“Do you like dogs?” he asks. Derek has already started walking, not waiting for Stiles to follow. “Can I call you Grumpy Dog?”

“You can call me Derek,” he says, and then he’s across the street, barely missing a wandering taxi. 

Breakfast is nice. It’s quiet. Stiles gets the square waffles with apples and maple syrup. Derek orders an egg white spinach omelette.

“Laura isn’t expecting you home?” Stiles asks.

“Laura’s asleep. Like the rest of the normal world.” Derek steals a piece of bacon off Stiles’s plate. “Besides,” he says. “She has a new boyfriend. It’s nice. Almost like I have my own place.”

Stiles nods. “Best part of grad school was getting out of those dorms.”

There’s a long silence while they both chew and avoid each other’s eyes. 

“What are you studying?” Derek asks.

“It’s OK.” Stiles laughs. “We don’t have to talk about that. I don’t want to put you to sleep, rambling about folklore and werewolf mythologies.”

But at the word, a charge goes through the air between them. Derek’s eyes dart around the room and are wide when he looks back to meet Stiles. 

“You like--you’re studying werewolves?”

“It’s not kinky, I swear!” Stiles drops his fork and holds up three fingers in the Boy Scout salute to show Derek he’s serious.

“No, it’s just...” When Derek trails off, Stiles nudges his foot under the table to get him talking again. “That’s kind of what Laura does, too.”

“Like a hobby? I thought she was your silent partner.” Laura Hale wears a lot of sensible skirt and jacket combinations and takes care of the money stuff at the bar. Once, Lydia did a five-minute monologue on her brooch collection, and Stiles still isn’t sure if it was praise or derision. 

“She’s also a social worker,” Derek explains.

It doesn’t make sense in his head, but it also feels like Derek is telling him more than he’s telling him. A minute ago, they were flirting.

“Like for troubled kids?” Stiles asks, though he already knows that doesn’t sound right. 

“Like for Scott.”

For weeks after they first started going to The Loup, Stiles insisted Derek was different. He didn’t know what it was he felt, but he was convinced Derek wasn’t completely human. Wishful thinking, Scott called it. He thought it was lust, not supernatural.

“Oh my God, he’s an idiot.” Stiles drops his fork and slumps in his seat. 

Derek raises an eyebrow.

“Scott,” Stiles explains. “He told me I was looking for trouble.”

Derek nods. “He’s an omega in a pack of humans. He second guesses his instincts.”

Instead of crashing down around them, the truth pushes them closer together. “Derek.” Stiles reaches out with his foot and hooks his ankle around Derek’s. He takes in a deep breath. “I didn’t know.”

“Besides, Laura and me?” His shoulders come up around his ears. “We got good at hiding.”

“I knew The Loup was a supernatural halfway house.” Stiles waves a forkful of waffles in the air like a victory flag.

“You didn’t know anything,” Derek tells him. He’s terse, but smiling. It’s Stiles’s favourite expression so far.

They finish eating their breakfast. He pays up at the counter, and Stiles gets to watch him pull that leather jacket on again, over his big shoulders, falling just above his butt.

“How long have you wanted to do this?” Stiles asks, once they’re back on the sidewalk, heading in the wrong direction if Stiles wants to get home. He doesn’t want to get home. 

“Tell you or date you?”

Stiles smacks his arm. “Ass. You can probably read me better than I can talk.” He thinks he knows where this is going, and his brain is screaming, Don’t fuck this up, but Stiles wants to know.

“A while.” Derek says. The sleeves of his leather jacket are too long. They fall over his fingers, and Stiles has to wonder who the jacket belonged to first. 

“What made you think I wanted this?” Stiles asks, when Derek won’t say anything more.

His shoulders come up, and he turns away as they walk. Derek’s legs are longer. Stiles has to walk faster to keep up.

“It’s fine,” Derek says. His grumpy cat eyebrows are back, too. “We don’t have to do this.” He steps past Stiles to the curb and glares up and down the street. “I can get you a taxi.”

“Derek, hey. I wanted to do this.”

He glares at Stiles next.

“I just meant, why me? People don’t see me.”

“That’s--” He shakes his head and he almost laughs. Tonight, Stiles has seen Derek smile. He’s not leaving until he gets a laugh, too. “That’s ridiculous. You--” He pauses, choosing every word carefully. “You watch me.”

“I didn’t think you noticed.”

“Stiles, you’re not quiet. You’re so damn pale you glow in the dark. Everyone notices you.”

“I don’t think that’s true, but OK,” he says. “So you noticed me. What’s different about tonight?”

They’re not walking, and though the sun is coming up, peeking light through the buildings, it’s still a chilly morning. When Stiles shivers, he doesn’t know if it’s October or if it’s Derek, standing far too close now. He tugs on the sleeve of Derek’s jacket and gets them walking again. He doesn’t dare to hold hands yet, but Stiles keeps his fingers wrapped around the sleeve.

“You’re in the bar all the time, Stiles.”

“Did Erica tell you not to date the customers? I can find somewhere else to drink. The bodega across the street sells cheap beer, and they have this cat I think you should meet.” Stiles knocks their hips together and that makes Derek laugh. There it is.

“No, but Scott said something tonight.” Derek pulls his hand away, but before Stiles can tell him to stay, a heavy arm falls on his shoulders, and Stiles finds himself mashed up against Derek’s side. Their feet tangle, just for a moment, then they find their rhythm, and Stiles is walking, safe, under Derek’s arm. 

“He said not everything you do is a joke.” He walks them through an abandoned lot and then, they stop, at the building Stiles thinks must be Derek’s own. “He basically told me I was being stupid, and if Scott can tell, then, well, I am.”

“Laura calls you stupid, too, doesn’t she?”

“Sisters don’t count,” Derek says. Stiles thinks that’s like how dads don’t count.

“OK,” Stiles says. He wraps his free hand around Derek’s waist. “You can kiss me now.”

The first time is slow and careful. Derek handles him like Stiles might bolt, might not want to go any further than a soft press of lips on lips. He goes slow, like he doesn’t trust his own control, and that makes Stiles feel exciting. His fingers slip and squeak on leather when he tries to pull Derek closer, climb inside his skin.

“We could go inside,” Derek says. 

“What about Laura?”

“She has a boyfriend; I told you. She’s not home.” He tries to pull away to open the door, but Stiles doesn’t want to let him go. Not now. “You can come in, Stiles,” Derek says. He pulls Stiles down the stairs to his door and drags him inside. Stiles likes it.

The last time Stiles had Derek’s arm around him like this, the guy was throwing him out of the bar. He was gruff, but polite about it, helping Scott help Stiles into a taxi because there was no way they could manage the walk home. That was the night he knew he had to dump Charlie, but before he actually did it.

The night Stiles dumped Charlie, Scott took him out. He bought him drinks and gave him quarters to play Billy Joel all night long. Derek hated it, but he didn’t stop bringing them beer. Now Stiles thinks he knows what that was about.

“You don’t have to turn on the lights,” he says. Derek’s arm guides him down the hall and into a big room with a bed, and a desk, a record player, but no couch. “Don’t worry,” Stiles says, turning, yawning, pushing the leather jacket off Derek’s shoulders. “I glow in the dark.”

They kiss some more, on the bed, legs tangled up again, but it’s perfect because Stiles can’t trip like this. He rolls over onto his back and Derek follows this time, leaning down for another kiss and catching the rough edge of Stiles’s jaw, rubbing his lips over stubble and making them both groan. 

Stiles says, “Stop. Can we stop a minute?” and they both roll away. Stiles needs a second to catch his breath. Beside him on the bed, he can hear Derek breathing, too. 

He throws off his sweatshirt and kicks away his shoes and wriggles out of his jeans. Derek strips, too, because when Stiles reaches out to find his hand. He finds Derek’s abs instead.

“Oh.” He traces the ridges with a finger. “That’s nice.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, his teeth clenched. He’s trying not to laugh, Stiles figures, and pulls his hand away again.

“Sorry. Right. You distracted me.” 

Derek holds the blanket up to let him snuggle up. Stiles was thinking sex, but now he’s really yawning, and that sun is really up. It’s going to have to be sleep tonight instead. Stiles lays his head on Derek’s chest, and Derek lays his hand on Stiles’s neck.

“We don’t have to, right?”

Derek puts his hand on Stiles’s jaw and makes him look up. His eyes are soft in the dark. “Next time, don’t drink so much.”

Pushing himself up Derek’s chest, Stiles finds his mouth in the dark for a kiss. “Next time, don’t make me wait.”

Derek’s fingers stroking circles on his neck make him sleepy. Stiles settles back down on his chest. 

“You’re not so grumpy,” Stiles says. “I’ll have to call you Happy Cat.” He thinks, burrowed deep in Derek’s smell and skin. “Comfy Cat?”

“No cats, Stiles.”

Derek works nights, which means there’s no alarm to wake them up in the morning. There’s Stiles’s phone, ringing in his jeans on the floor, and Scott demanding answers as soon as Stiles says hello.

“Where do you think I am?” he says. “You’re the one who sicced the grumpy bartender on me.”

Derek holds him tighter around the waist, his fingers tucked under the band of Stiles’s briefs.

“No, I have to go home first. My clothes are gross.”

Scott makes an aborted noise in his throat, like a choking sob.

“Not like that, you idiot!” Stiles can feel Derek shaking with laughter. “You’re gross, Scott.”

“I don’t know how guy-on-guy goes down,” he says.

“Yes, you do,” Stiles says. “You’ve watched porn with me.” A pained groan from under the covers tells Stiles he needs to end this conversation before Derek kills himself. “Goodbye, Scott.”

He hangs up before Scott can say anything more.

"I do have to go," he says, curling up with his head on Derek's stomach where he can see his face. "You probably need to sleep some more."

Stiles tries to push himself up off the bed, but Derek is having none of that. They fall back into the pillows together. His mouth tastes disgusting, but Derek kisses him anyway. 

"C'mon." Stiles wriggles out from under Derek's arms. "The first time we do this," he promises, "is not going to be a quickie before class."

"You'd rather sit through a lecture with a hard-on?"

Nobody is ever going to believe Stiles that Derek is funny. But it’s nice. It’s the part of Derek he gets to keep for himself.

“Well,” he says. Stiles rolls onto his back. He drags Derek with him. “I don’t have the same rules about blowjobs.”

“Yeah?” Derek is between his legs, hips stuttering against Stiles, both of them hard. 

“Do it,” Stiles tells him. He runs his hand through Derek’s hair, tugging until Derek is whining so much, Stiles has to kiss him to shut him up. Stiles loves kissing. It’s the best lie detector and an early warning system.

Lydia taught him that. They make out a lot when they get high. They don’t get high a lot, but Stiles usually ends up reciting poetry about Lydia’s hair or describing the dark powers that some myths claim reside in gingers. Lydia likes compliments, so Lydia kisses him. Stiles likes Lydia, so Stiles kisses back.

But there’s no there there. It’s just nice, the way his hand is nice in the shower or Scott was nice when they were 13 and curious. 

Derek’s mouth isn’t nice. He kisses, and he doesn’t let up. He uses both hands to get the angle right, and Derek’s tongue is amazing. Stiles is so happy such an amazing tongue is attached to such a hot body.

“Are we going to do this?” he asks. Derek is taking a breather, rubbing his nose across Stiles’s cheek and smelling deeply in his hair. They probably both smell like beer. Derek bites down on fleshiest part of Stiles’s ear, and Stiles decides, “Yeah, yes. We’re doing this.”

Derek bites marks on his neck, licks wet lines down his chest, and he rubs his palm over Stiles’s nipples until they’re both tiny points of pleasure and Stiles is arching off the bed for more.

All the while, his hips are still moving, pressing Stiles down on the bed, rubbing, jerking to a rhythm in Derek’s head. Something from the jukebox maybe.

They’re both still in their underwear. Derek pushes Stiles’s briefs down just below his balls, tight, and making everything stand up tall. 

“Come on,” Stiles says. He groans a long rumbling sound. “I’m close, Derek, close. I’m there, almost there.”

Stiles puts his hands on Derek’s head, tugging, nudging. He’s being helpful. It’s late, early morning. If Derek is still a little tired, Stiles is happy to remind him where they’re going. 

“Pull it,” Derek tells him. He looks up under his lashes and licks his lips. “I like it.”

Stiles likes it, too, the way Derek’s eyes fall shut, and he presses his face into Stiles’s balls, sucking each one into his mouth before he goes down on the hard and waiting cock. This is what Derek’s tongue was meant to do.

“Fuck,” Stiles says. He squeezes his eyes closed, trying to hang on to his orgasm. Derek’s head bobs under his hands, erratic, going down and not coming up until Stiles is sure he must be choking. “Derek,” he says, warning. “Derek, I’m not kidding.”

Everything is quiet. No cars outside, no footsteps upstairs. Stiles bites down hard on his lips to stop himself from babbling. It’s only the wet sounds of Derek’s mouth on his cock that Stiles can hear, and then a pure moment of silence, and he’s coming. 

He goes a little crazy; he’ll admit it. His arms flail over his head and catch on the wooden headboard. Stiles pulls himself up off the bed, shoving himself down Derek’s throat, more, more. It never stops, but Derek takes it all.

When Stiles open his eyes again, Derek has his forehead pressed against Stiles’s stomach and his ass in the air. Stiles can feel the bed moving a little. He sees Derek’s arm moving, his hand on his own cock, trying to get himself off. 

“Hey, hey,” Stiles says, his arms weak and flopping on the bed. Derek sits up, on his knees, eyes wide and caught, and his hand stutters around his cock.

He shakes his head, his mouth falls open, and Stiles gets to watch Derek come, spurting a beautiful arc which lands wet on Stiles’s stomach. He laughs, and Derek laughs, and they roll together until Derek is happy with how Stiles is arranged on the bed, back to his chest, ass pressed against his sticky and limp dick.

“That was really good,” Stiles tells him. “I mean, the show and the opening act. I liked it all.” He reaches back to scratch his fingers through Derek’s hair. Derek takes the hint easily and presses his face into Stiles’s shoulder.

Before they fall asleep again, Stiles escapes to the bathroom alone where he uses Derek's toothbrush, scrubs his face, and wipes himself down. In the mirror, he can’t see all the marks, but the ones on his neck are going to last. Derek has been so gentle with him, but that mark is a sign of something more, maybe something Stiles can convince to come out and play. He sees now, sober in the cold morning, he never had to convince Derek. Derek had to convince himself.

He's still in bed when Stiles comes back into the room, leaning against the wall with a pillow at his back and the sheets fallen around his hips. The eyebrows don't look so grumpy now. They go up when Stiles scratches his belly, then reaches further to pull his cock, just because.

"Stop it," Derek says.

"Make me."

Stiles explains that he has two classes today and a shift in the computer lab in between. But he can meet Derek at The Loup afterwards.

"I don't work until 10."

"That's right." He smirks. "I forgot why Scott loves Mondays."

He sits at the end of the bed to tie his shoes. It's not long before Stiles feels warm breath, then dry lips on the back of his neck. They don’t have time to go again, but his dick wants to try.

"I'm walking you home," Derek says, defiant and decided. Stiles gets to watch while he yanks on last night's jeans and a shirt the same colour, but clean from his drawer. He wanders around the bed with one boot on until he finds the other. "Let me take you home," he says, like Stiles hasn't been waiting for those words for years.

The walk doesn't seem so long in the morning. The streets are full again, not rush hour busy, but it keeps Stiles alert, always moving. When he does get pushed too close to the edge of the sidewalk, Derek is there with a hand to drag him back. He wraps Stiles up in that arm again, heavy, but safe, around his shoulders. Their hips bump in the most delicious way.

Stiles tells him about his morning seminar, the four kids who think they're smarter than Stiles and the one who actually is. "But she's a real jerk about it," he explains. "Like there's some prize at the end for being the smart one."

"I thought the grade was the prize," Derek says. Stiles wants to ask about how Derek ended up at the bar, but that's probably not a conversation for the street.

"The grade is fine, but that's what I paid for. The class is the prize. That's the part that's supposed to be fun."

Derek's makes a hmm sound, so Stiles continues.

"Like your job, OK. You love the part where customers ask you to recommend them a drink. They're paying you to get them drunk; you give them a quality experience for free."

They're both quiet for a city block, thinking it through. "That's the stupidest analogy," Derek says, finally.

"Fine," Stiles says. "It's early. Shut up."

They turn onto his street, and Stiles sees his building up ahead. But there's something he has to do first. He can be a little late for class.

"This way," he says and steers Derek across the street with a hand on his back, under his leather jacket.

"You hungry?" Derek asks, as they duck inside the bodega. There are pumpkins and skeletons in the window. There are also reindeer and bunnies and leprechauns, so they’re prepared for every holiday. Stiles comes here for the creme eggs they stock year-round.

Tonight’s side-trip isn't about food or beer or even condoms (though Stiles isn't sure how many are left in that box under his bed). 

"Derek, meet Grumpy Cat." He holds his arm out in a flourish. The cat on the counter looks up, rearranges itself, and goes back to sleep. “Funny. I would’ve thought cats should be afraid of wolves.”

"You are," Derek says, "the craziest person I have ever met." He leans in for a kiss, and Stiles will never get used to how awesome that is. “And I work in a bar. Crazy is my job.”

“‘Bout time you brought your work home.”

Derek rolls his eyes. 

Stiles gives the cat a scratch on his head. It makes a sound not unlike Derek when he tells Stiles to stop fucking around with the jukebox. It doesn't sound happy, but Stiles knows better now. 

“Pet him, Derek,” he says, and those eyes go rolling again. But Derek does it. The cat purrs for Derek. Stiles raises his arms in victory. "Thank you. We can go now," Stiles says and tucks himself into Derek's side again.

They kiss outside his building, but he won’t let Derek come up.

“Seriously,” Stiles says. “You need sleep. I’m starting to think you’re using me like a crutch to keep yourself upright.”

“Come to the bar after.” Derek has both hands on Stiles’s face so he can’t get away. The kiss goes deep and deeper, wet and yeah, that’s Derek’s tongue. “I’ll save you a stool,” he says, stepping back. “Down at my end for a change.”

Stiles nods. “That sounds good.” Their hands fall away and apart as he walks towards the door, looking for his keys. Derek shoves his hands in his pockets to keep warm and heads for home.

“I’ll bring the quarters!” Stiles shouts down the street. Derek turns and gives him the finger instead of a wave. Everything about him makes Stiles smile, even the grumpy eyebrows.


End file.
